


Lil' Nugget Time Stamps

by LizardWhisperer



Series: Lil' Nugget Series [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Babysitters, Cas is A GREAT kid, Cas' POV, Case Fic, Castiel in the Bunker, Craftiel, Crying Castiel, De-Aged Castiel, Dean Strikes, Dean Strikes Out, Fluffy-fluffy-fluff, Ghosties, Hunters & Hunting, Not All Tags Apply to All Chapters, Pants wetting, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam Is So Done, Shopping, Spanking, Surprise! - Freeform, Talk of sexual orientation, You're gonna cheer, You're gonna need tissues, hunters acting fluffy, original character death, tubby time, vomit--sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:49:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizardWhisperer/pseuds/LizardWhisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daily life in and out of the bunker, starring the Winchesters and everyone's favorite little angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight of the Bumblebee

**Author's Note:**

> Once again beta'd by the gloriously patient DeadMockingBirds, without whom I'd still be chiseling on slate like Fred Flintstone.
> 
> Tip: Get your toothbrush, this one's wicked sweet.

_Brrrrrrrrroooowwwrrr!_  

Sam looked up from his current research and smiled.  “The planes are flying low today,” he said to himself. 

_Rrrrreeooowwww!_

Sam smiled bigger and shook his head, his source of amusement preferable to the dry vampire lore in front of him. 

Landing gear squealed as it lowered, the whining of the dropped flaps sounded not unlike a childlike sigh.

_OOooOOOooOOoo—Eeeerrrrt!_

Sam laughed right along with the miniature aircraft, as it came to a bouncy landing on the nearby couch.   Little Cas rolled onto his back in a fit of laughter, turning his red face towards Dean to shout, “Again!”

Beside him, the hunter lay supine on the rug, his socked feet dangling over his own head, having just delivered Cas through his fourth airplane ride.

“Sammy, isn’t it time to refuel yet?” Dean was hopeful.

Sam glanced at his watch, announcing, “Lunch time—for planes, trains, and automobiles.”

“Awww, Sam,” the little angel whined as he sat up, clearly not ready to stop flying the friendly skies.

Sam rose from his chair, as his older brother clambered to his feet, graceful as a drunken elephant.  “C’mon, Nugget.” Dean lifted up the pouting toddler under the arms, and then swung him around in a big, fun circle, erasing the little scowl and bringing back the preferred giggles.

Dean parked the boy on his hip, following his younger brother to the kitchen.  “Let’s go see what Sam’s got to eat that isn’t covered in roots and leaves,” Dean told Cas, bouncing him as he went to preserve his light mood.

“Har-har—I can hear you, you know, Dean,” Sam said to his brother, as Dean followed him into the stainless steel room, Cas in tow. “And for your information, it _is_ a salad—but it has cheese and fruit and your choice of three kinds of dressing.” Finishing the menu, Sam set his jaw, challenging Dean to complain.

As he sat Cas on the counter, Dean leaned against its edge, beside round, pink knees.  “See, Nugget—what did I tell ya? Roots and leaves.”

The bitch in Sam’s face could have peeled the temporary skin from a shape-shifter.  

“I like cheese and fruit,” Cas chimed in and saved the day.  Smugly satisfied, Sam offered, “You’re welcome to cook a burger, if you like, De—“  Dean broke in, “I like—”  Used to Dean’s snarky mouth, Sam continued, “—but the burger's frozen and I can’t remember when we bought those rolls.”

“How about salad now, Dean and then burgers for dinner?”  Cas’s blue eyes implored, right through his sweeping lashes (not fair) and once again Sam marveled at their little one’s knack for diplomacy.

Completely slayed by the eyelash dragon, the older hunter planted a kiss on his charge’s forehead. “You got it, buddy.  I’ll take the burger out now.”

 

Cas had a healthy appetite for one so tiny, but that didn’t mean he was teeming with table manners.  Sam and Dean often had difficulty keeping the child seated during a meal. The second-hand highchair Sam brought home had proved a total bust, as Cas attempted the Triple-Lindy far too many times for the brothers’ comfort.

Not being a finger food, salad found its way into Cas by the forkful, as the young angel occasionally performed a drive-by past Sam, making buzzing noises—not unlike Dean’s airplane impression. 

 _Zzzzrrrrrrrrzzzzz!_ (chomp, munch-munch)

“Hey, Buzz—how ‘bout you taxi over here and take a drink,” Dean offered.  Despite Cas’ routine pattern, Dean still attempted to slow down the toddler, hearing his father’s voice warning him not to run with his mouth full.  Cas obeyed his friend, taking a long pull off his sippy cup and plunking the plastic back on the table. As he swiped his sleeve across his chin, Cas gave Dean an exaggerated “Aaaahh,” Sticking out his tongue for inspection.  “Good job, Nugget.  Sam made some fruity dessert, so try to keep your flight plan local.” 

Beaming at the praise, Cas was quickly off again, buzzing and singing another blast from the boys’ pasts. “Iiiiii’m bringin’ home a baby bumble bee—won’t my brothers be so proud of me?” Dean looked up at his brother only to find him already staring back, a forkful of greens and fruit frozen above his plate.

Dean mouthed the word “ _brothers?_ ” at his own, the question stuck fast the folds of his brow.

Sam frowned, shrugged, and swung his head indifferently. Just then, Cas came zooming up to him, mouth open like a baby bird, which Sam filled with his loaded fork.

As he watched Cas skip away, chewing and humming happily, Dean said, “Well, he’s not our son.”

“And try as you might to treat him the same, Dean—Cas isn’t exactly the friend we knew.”

“…won’t my brothers be so proud of me,” came floating, in kid tune from the hall way.  Dean cocked his head, hearing the lyric repeated. “Hey, Nugget, come here a sec!”

Cas came running at Dean’s call—he always had. 

The small aircraft got scooped up to come in for a landing on the man’s lap. “Where’d you learn that bumble bee song, buddy?” Dean asked him, casually as the hunter could manage.  Sam placed down his fork, waiting for Cas’ answer.

“Uuummm, a cartoon, I guess, Dean.”

Dean smirked, “Yeah, that’s a classic—about a wimpy vulture, right?”

Cas’ little head nodded as he continued, “His family brings home farm animals but all he gets is a little bumble bee.  What’s for dessert, Sam?”

“I made ambrosia, just for you, Little Man.”

Cas clapped in appreciation, blowing Sam a thank you kiss. “Food of the gods! And it’s got marshmallows!”

Dean thought it sounded pretty cool but pressed his charge once more.  “So that song, did you change the words on purpose, Cas, or because you forgot them?”

Cas fixed Dean with a patronizing look, as he said. “Dean, I know every translation of the Holy Bible, including the original parchment scrolls.”  Dean opened his mouth to reassure his friend he held every confidence in his intelligence, but a flattened little palm stayed his comment. “I can draw you a detailed map of this world with no references and name every supernatural entity both modern and long-extinct.”

Dean and Sam waited patiently to see where the fancy vocab lesson was going. Their amazing charge looked from one hunter to the other. The weight of Cas’ sigh reflected his many immortal years in his previous form. Pudgy fingers gripped Dean’s stubble, guiding him to look Cas in his engaging blue eyes. “Don’t you think _I know_ who my brothers are?” said Cas, eyes unwavering.

Finally, Dean broke the stare to wrap his arms around the tiny angel, gathering him up like the precious thing he was. “And don’t you _know_ you never need to wonder if we’re proud?”

At Dean’s declaration, Sam lifted his bottle of spring water. “Here, here—brothers.”

 


	2. (Mis)Adventures in Nuggetsitting ----   Part 1. Almost Nobody Gets Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See tags

Cas was not a bad boy.  Observing the little angel, one might find him thoughtful, kind, affectionate--and quick to empathize.  One may go further to say the toddler appeared  creative, eager to learn, and smart as a whip.

 _One_ might also say Cas was head-strong, moody, and downright stubborn.

But Cas was not a bad boy.

Even when he didn’t like it--and often preceded by a fit--Cas would eventually calm down and obey.  Still dragging his little feet along and not without some hurt feelings, the young angel did as he was told by Sam or Dean--usually hiccupping an apology through his tears.

Cas was not a bad boy.

Those infrequent times Cas chose not to obey ended in lost privileges; a missed dessert, no TV--or the dreaded early bedtime.  These “lost fun” punishments, as Dean called them were enough to curb the boy’s behavior--and again bring out the tearful sorries.  

Only twice did little Cas over-press the “wrong behavior button” and send Sam into his spin cycle.  Both times little Cas wound up with a sore little bottom.  Both were short, age-appropriate spankings--but Cas had learned quickly how unpleasant Sam’s high heat setting could be.

Not that Cas was a bad boy.

Little Castiel knew he wasn’t bad because Sam and Dean made sure he knew.  After being punished, Cas always had a shoulder (usually two) to cry on, along with gentle words, and steady reassurances.  All was forgiven, the incident was over--and Cas was their very good boy.  After delivering each of those two short spankings, Sam hugged Cas tight and kissed the little angel’s hair, his cheeks, his nose--heck, his elbows too.  Sam kissed nearly everything but Cas’ aching tush.  The tall hunter’s apologies mingled with those of his portable kissing booth.  Sam hated to be so harsh with the child, but sometimes Cas seemed to need it.

Dean, however, refused to spank Cas.

Cas’ favorite playmate had yet to follow through with his transparent threats to “warm his tail” or “give him a tanning,”--both phrases Sam recognized from the boys’ childhood, during their stays with Bobby.  The surly, drunken old hunter never seemed to make good on these warnings, either. Behind the wiry beard and junkyard grease, Bobby Singer was a marshmallow.

Dean was a marshmallow too—when it came to his little angel.

Dean the marshmallow melted inside each time he and Sam had to leave their little Cas behind, so the brothers could follow a lead for a hunt.  The drop-off festivities usually included a pre-packing bargaining session, a demonstrative car seat tantrum, and heart-wrenching tears with their goodbyes.  Of course, staying with the same sitter more than once softened the blow somewhat, but Cas still delivered the goods with each new angel-keeper they found.

The first sitter found them, when an old cell phone of John’s sprang to life, surprising both hunters.  They paid careful attention to the voice on the other end, which described gruesome bodies, missing half their organs.  The shaken voice went on to explain the same kind of murders plagued her town ten years ago.  John Winchester had arrived in the area, flashing a badge and asking the strangest questions.  When the woman—Holly, said the awkward FBI man blew town the same day the killings stopped, Dean asked her how she’d come to have this number.  “He gave me a card and told me if I still lived in this area in a decade, to call him.”

They checked Dad’s journal—a Visyak—a damn nasty one, too.  John claimed that they couldn’t be killed, only put to sleep and contained.  Unfortunately, some sort of monster alarm clock woke them after ten years—time to get up for work.  A Visyak fell under the “too-dangerous-to-hunt-now-we-have-a-toddler” category, but it had been their father’s quarry, making it theirs.  Family business—a job for the Winchesters.  The hunters also discovered that Dad’s Visyak Google search had been lacking—lacking angel knowhow, that is.

Little Cas sat in Sam’s lap, guiding the hunter’s tablet search for a Fenrir stone, on which to sharpen a knife that, after being dipped in rat’s blood, would end the monster-of-the-week permanently.  Once one was located, Cas and Sam used the tablet to play video games.

Cas—what to do with their little fruit ninja?  Dean stole away to call Holly and tell her they were coming to help, but asked for a little help himself.

Arriving in the suburban town, special rock as well as special child in tow, the Winchesters visited Holly first, to make sure they had all their facts—and make an introduction.  Cas refused to be carried and Dean’s FBI suit stayed crisp and clean, but the hunter hung onto the toddler’s hand firmly—after all, there was a freaking Visyak lurking around. 

Once the neat-looking blonde woman asked them in, however, Cas felt a sudden need to press Dean’s outfit, using his tiny body.  One pant leg done, Cas shyly hid behind his other—that is until Miss Holly produced some milk and a plate of cookies.  While they discussed the case, Sam and Dean watched their little one’s shyness dissolve, replaced with smiles and giggles and wait—was he flirting?  Dean rubbed Cas’ head as they finished up their questions, then dropped the zeppelin, “Hey, Nugget, how’d you like to hang out here with Holly while we go take care of this?”  Cas stalled mid-cookie, his big blue eyes darted between the three adults, but he saved his ultimate look of betrayal for Dean.  Lucky Dean. 

 “B-but I can help!  I told you how to kill it, why don’t I get to help?” 

Sam said nothing. Thanks, Sam.  Just as the waterworks started, Holly—wonderful Holly knelt down before the cutest little cherub she’d ever laid eyes on, stroked his arm and began to sing.  “You are my Sunshine,” filled the room, in a perfect soprano, catching the whole trio off-guard, but captivating the youngest. “Please don’t take my sunshine away,” Holly finished and opened her arms; Cas went to her easily.  As she wiped his pink cheeks, Cas’ new friend quietly told him all the fun things they could do together and he harkened to her plans.   Sam retrieved Cas’ Ninja Turtles back pack, shaped like a shell, and hugs were passed around—three times, before the hunters were able to slip out. 

One dead Visyak later, the Winchesters enjoyed a happy reunion with their angel.  “Were you a good boy?” Sam asked, giving Cas Eskimo kisses. 

“He sure was,” Holly beamed, while Cas nodded in agreement.  As Dean packed Cas’ turtle shell, Holly described the familiar scene of Cas’ post-nightmare terror.  Damn—he wasn’t there for him.

Holly was a Godsend, but unfortunately that case had been two states and a three-day trip away, so Cas had only been back once to “visit” his friend.

There were some hit-and-miss  sitters, family members of other hunters willing to help out, but not entirely willing to deal with a sleepless night—which always came with the Winchesters’ charge.

Eventually, when Sam and Dean weren’t with him, Cas stopped sleeping.  If he didn’t go to bed, he didn’t sleep and no sleep equaled no nightmare.  Again, problematic to those left to watch the boy.

Bedtime became an ordeal for everyone involved—and for some, too extreme a behavior to tolerate from a toddler.  One such sitter named Alice, the widow of a hunter Sam and Dean had worked with when younger, took the problem into hand. Alice, it turned out, had a problem of her own.

It was late as the brothers pulled into the driveway of the quiet-looking house—but the house was anything but quiet.  The familiar piercing cry of their little one served as background noise to angry shouting.  Dean didn’t bother to knock, but burst in the front door, Sam on his heels, and went right to Cas, curled in a ball on the floor sobbing.  Sam pulled the heaving, hollering woman away, across the room and past an open bottle of scotch on the table.  As she realized through her stupor that the hunters were there, Alice began raving about “that little shit,” and how he had a head “like a brick.”

Dean scooped up the bawling little angel, telling him, “I gotcha, Cas,” then turned on the drunk woman.  “What’s wrong with you?  He’s just a baby!” 

She slurred, “Old enough to say ‘no.’ Old ‘nough (hic) to talk back. Thinks he’s old enough to tell me—“ Alice faltered, “to tell me why I drink.  I don’ gotta take that from him!”

Sam tried and failed to help the unsteady woman to sit down.  Dean didn’t want to help her—he wanted to gank her.  With his stricken friend still crying in his arms, the hunter leveled a murderous glare at Alice. “What did you do him, bitch?”

Smug and unapologetic, the widow challenged the hunter’s gaze, raising her chin.  “Ha!  Beat that little brat's ass good! He’ll think twice before he—“  the rest of the foul woman’s speech must have wound up in Dean’s fist, as he laid her out in one punch.  Sam looked down as the unconscious woman crumbled to the floor.

“To the moon, Alice!”

But Dean couldn’t revel in his joke, as he turned all his attention to his suffering Lil’ Nugget.  Both men worked their magic at calming their friend, with caresses and kind words.  “We should take a look,” said Sam, gesturing towards Cas’ pj bottoms, “she might have really hurt him, Dean.” 

Easing the fleece pants down carefully for a peek, Dean closed his eyes quickly and squeezed his little one tighter.  Taking in the bruises with disgust, Sam redressed the little angel.  “Dean, let’s get him out of here.”

Stepping over Alice’s drooling frame, Sam asked, “Do we just leave her here?”

“No, Sammy.”

In the wee hours, someone reported a car driving erratically in their neighborhood.   Police discovered a woman unconscious behind the wheel of the running car, a half-filled bottle of scotch in her hand.

 

Home in the bunker, little Cas lay on his belly beside his favorite hunter, getting his back stroked his favorite way—with a bag of his favorite frozen vegetables resting on his bottom.

“I swear to you, Nugget, we’ll never let that happen again. “

“She called me bad, Dean.”

“You’re not bad, Cas.”

“She called me a brat, Dean.”

“You’re not a brat, Cas.”

“Dean?  _You_ called me a baby.”

Dean lifted his head off the pillow.  “I did, didn’t I?  Well—you’re not a baby, either.”

This news brought a contented sigh as the exhausted child began to drift.

Then, “Dean—why do they call it babysitting?”


	3. (Mis)Adventures in Nuggetsitting ----   Part 2. Bea Happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you still love me at the end of this chapter--I could use a hug.  
> ..............................................................................................

Cas and Sam met the pleasant old lady at the town library, as they both studied a book on the occult.  Bea had been impressed that little Cas was so quiet, she hadn’t even been aware a child was in this section.  To the seasoned librarian with the grey bun on top, Cas appeared to be enjoying the book’s colorful pictures, when in reality, the tiny angel was aiding Sam to decipher a code involving a dead language and a numerical sequence too complicated for the hunter alone to track.  

Bea had met the pair again at the checkout desk where Sam listened politely to the elderly woman’s vast experiences, mainly because his mini-sidekick seemed enchanted by the lady who called Cas “Dewdrop” and pretended to snatch his nose.  

So Bea became Cas’ favorite sitter.  The angel had to pretend he couldn’t read, but soon didn’t mind being read kid’s books, curled up on his caretaker’s plush lap, Cas basked in the glow of Bea’s mothering.  

Sometimes, Cas would even doze off, feeling safe enough in the folds of Bea’s flowery smock to risk dreaming.

But the dreams came, with total disregard to Cas’ warm security--and Bea was there to wake him, to comfort him.  She’d call The Winchesters, no matter the hour, so the toddler could hear their voices and believe they were safe.  Bea was awesome.

Bea was so awesome, both the brothers and Cas forgot her age.  When she wasn’t regaling her dance days at the USO, Bea seemed timeless.  The old woman never complained about being an old woman and Sam and Dean agreed that while they were both blindsided, Bea herself never saw it coming.

They returned from an intense hunt, their volatile quarry had nearly ended the Winchesters--a fact they had kept well-hidden from the small, trembling voice during last night’s check-in call. The brothers needed showers, needed bandages, and needed sleep.  But what the brothers needed most was their Lil’ Nugget.  Sam picked the front door lock, after Dean pounded for five minutes, with no answer.  As Sam worked the burglar tools, Dean called out Bea and Cas’ names repeatedly--desperately.  The lock gave and both men entered cautiously, guns drawn.  “Cas?”

 

“I’m here, Dean--”

 

The hunters swung their weapons into the bedroom--then lowered them simultaneously--both men demolished.  “Aw, Cas,” was all Sam could manage, while Dean was a statue, tears pricking at his eyes.

 

Bea and Cas lay on top of the covers. Bea was pale, still, and peaceful.  The child angel, Castiel, lay against her body, his meager little hand warm on her cold forehead.  The hand petted the dead woman reverently, as the child attached leaned close and whispered, “I gotta go now, Bea.  Say hi to Seymour and—please tell him about me?”

 

That was the final crack in Dean’s bell.  He sunk down to his knees beside his tall brother and reached out his hands, as far as he could.

“C’mere, Nugget,” Dean said, as his young friend left his vigil and launched himself into waiting arms.  Dean cried openly.

“She’s ok, Dean,” Cas said, his tears silent. “Bea’s in Heaven with her husband and her son and-and-and her dog, Chewie.”

 

Sam placed a broad hand on his brother and their remarkable little boy, after swiping a sleeve at his own tears.

Cas looked up at him. “She felt it in her chest, Sam. She knew it was time.  She told me not to be scared and I told her I wasn’t--but I was gonna miss her. She said to call you to come get me, but--don’t be mad, Sammy?”

Dean continued to sob into Cas’ pj’s and Cas’ eyes glistened with his own tears. Sam shook his head and patted his little friend’s back. “I won’t be mad, Hun, promise.”

“She said to call, but I told her ‘no,’ I’m gonna stay with my friend Bea ‘til she’s reaped and they take her to Heaven,” Cas said.

Poor Dean sobbed louder.

“And she asked me how I got so smart and I told her… I told her the truth.”

Sam’s raised brow only helped more tears trickle down. “You told her you were an angel, Cas?”

Black hair nodded as the child nuzzled against the crying hunter.  “Yeah, and Sam? Dean? You know what Bea said? She said, ‘I knew it!’”

Dean snuffled and hiccupped and worked hard at catching his breath.  “C-course she did, Nugget. An-anyone with a heart can see you’re an angel.”

The trio took their time collecting themselves, eventually coming around to calling the authorities.  Sam packed Cas’ overnight bag, collecting toys that had accumulated at his regular babysitter’s. Cas asked Sam for the duffle and disappeared a moment into the bedroom.  “Think he forgot to tell her something?” Dean said with a shrug to his brother.  Before Sam could answer, Cas emerged dragging the heavy bag.

Dean collected their angel and they departed before the police arrived.

They were mostly quiet on the ride home and the brothers thought Cas must’ve nodded off, but then he piped up, “I told Bea all about Heaven.”

In his mirror, Dean could just make out the round head in the dark backseat. “That’s cuz you’re a good boy, angel.”

 

Cas climbed into Dean’s bed, toting Dear bear and something else. Dean gave Cas a look of uncertainty when his little friend handed him “The Hungry Caterpillar.”  The hunter quickly traded in the look for a refund when confronted with the angel’s pleading eyes--the envy of many a hound dog. “This is what you wanna read tonight, Nugget?” Dean realized he’d made another boo-boo when Cas dropped that hypnotic gaze, and hesitated in silence.

“ _Or--I could read it to you_ ,” Dean said hurriedly.

Dean Winchester felt like Captain America, Batman, and the dad from The Incredibles combined, when Cas’ soft, cherubic face finally lit up like a halogen bulb.  

As the pair nuzzled in and got cozy with the brightly-colored pages, Cas asked, “Who’s gonna watch me now, Dean?”

 

 “I am.” 


	4. Step Right Up--chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I set out to write a sweet little piece of Cas-goes-to-the-carnival fluff and ended up with a three-chapter ghost hunt, chock full of angsty goodness. But don't worry, dearest readers, there's PLENTY of Lil Cas cuteness--and cotton candy, too  
> This is unbeta'd, so mistakes are the sole property of LW.  
> Oh, and I lifted a scene right out of Mask.  
> ............................................................................................................

Cas stood in front of the target game, looking up with his mouth hanging open. The sights and sounds of the carnival swirled around the little angel, but the enormous stuffed monkey had his full attention. Sam and Dean looked at each other across the messy little head, each brother wondering where the Hell they would put the thing. Cas had his own room, where they stored his small clothes and any toys he wasn't currently playing with--which weren't many. The toddler had a talent for blending his pretending; just that morning he flew a dinosaur around in a spaceship, before landing him on a Monopoly board where Wolverine was waiting to be sprung from jail.  Sure, they could fit the ludicrously large sock monkey in Cas’ room—as long as it stayed there.

Cas reached both his hands up and balanced on his tippy-toes, longing to touch the prize, so Sam swung his tiny friend onto his shoulders and stepped close enough for Cas’ fingers to feel the Mr. Monkey’s brown foot.  Dean pulled out his wallet and asked the man running the game, “How many impossible things do I gotta make happen to take home the bigg’un?” motioning with his chin towards his little buddy’s big buddy.

The bald man smirked, as his tongue flipped a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, leaning closer to Dean like he had an important secret to reveal, “Big Monk can be yours, sir, all ya gotta do is land two rings over the pole, to get the alligator—then ya trade up, when ya dart only the white balloons.  To win the medium-size, knock down those milk bottles, make three baskets and ya get the jumbo pink elephant, then all ya gotta do is shoot all the targets  without hitting the ducks and you’re the grand prize winner!”

Dean’s hand still gripped the cash in his wallet. He shook his head at the tattooed man, disgusted, but the barker just waited, nibbling his shard of wood.  “ _All I gotta do_ , eh?  Ya gotta be kidding—everyone knows these games are fixed, Kojak.  How am I supposed to tell him we can’t possibly win?”  Dean looked over at Cas, who was hugging the toy’s gargantuan stuffed tail, from his perch atop Sam.  Sensing this plaid fish wasn’t going to bite, the carney began to bark out, “Step right up, try your luck!  Five bucks gets ya four tries! “

“Hey, guys!  Let’s go check out the fun house,” Dean tried to steer his brother away from the games, but Cas held on fast to the massive toy.  “You can win him, Dean!  C’mon, at least try,” Cas was laying it on thick, rubbing his cheek against plush fur and—did he just bat his eyes?  Finished shouting out his pitch, the bald man batted _his_ eyes at Dean, needling, “ _Yeah, you can win, Dean—at least try_.”   

“Cas, buddy, I’m sorry to tell ya but these games are next to impossible to win,” Dean gestured accusingly towards toothpick man, “And that guy makes a mint hanging that big, creepy thing up there, as sucker bait.”

Cas looked adoringly at the huge monkey, it’s over-sized button eyes staring blankly across the midway.

“You really think he’s creepy, Dean?” Sam wasn’t in a helpful mood, lifting Cas higher to rub the round monkey belly.   

Dean glared at his brother, but spoke to Cas, “C’mon, Nugget, there’s a lot more fun things to do, here,” plucking Cas off of Sam’s shoulders, he parked the pouting boy on his hip; where Dean began to bounce Cas, tickle Cas, nuzzle Cas’ neck with munching sounds—anything to distract him from that impossible prize.  “Besides, how we gonna have any fun if we get stuck hauling his red monkey ass around the fair?” 

Sam finally came through for his brother, producing a bright yellow balloon he bought from a strolling vendor.  “There’s my smile,” he said, as Cas looked up at his gift, making it dance by jerking the pudgy wrist on which Sam had tied it. When he inevitably let it go, the failed chase led them away from the ridiculous games and towards easier amusement. 

The fun house turned out to be a little cheesy for the adults, but Cas laughed himself right out of a sneaker, clutching his little tummy in front of the warped mirrors.  Once Sam got him re-shod, the little angel ran through a brightly colored wooden maze, its walls just high enough that Sam and Dean could stand outside and track his movements.  The maze was absolutely crawling with kids Cas’ age—more accurately, Cas’ size--and  the brothers watched, equally pleased and dismayed that their little man seemed like just another one—giggling madly when he popped his head out a tunnel to find another child waiting to crawl through.  Cas raced the other kids, rolled with them beneath the pirate ship mural over the wooden waves, and much to the Winchesters’ pride, helped a little girl up the rope ladder, when she froze in fear, just a foot off the floor.

“Is he yours—the one in the black t-shirt?  That’s the second time he came to my Vicki’s rescue, she gets scared, sometimes.”

Both brothers turned to the young red-haired woman beside them, as Dean answered, “Yeah, that’s Cas.  He’s an angel.”

Sam cleared his throat, Sam-style, and reached out his sizable hand, to shake the woman’s much smaller one. He offered a smile, “Hi, I’m Sam and this is Dean.”

“Theresa,” she smiled right back, keeping one eye on her daughter, “Don’t you three make a handsome family?”

Dean plunged his hands in his front pants pockets, “Well, actually, Cas is—“

“Adopted,” Sam cut in, “But he’s every single bit ours,” the tallest of the three adults, Sam could see Cas at the far end of the maze, sitting cross-legged beside his new friend, both spinning wooden gears on a painting of a clock.  “How old’s Vicki?”

“Almost five, but she’s so tiny you’d never know it.” 

“We hear ya, Cas is a peanut, too,” Sam got a sharp look from his brother, as he added, “What Cas lacks in size, he makes up with in brains.”

“Vicki was always bright, too and creative, but now—“ Theresa ran her hands up and down her upper arms, like she was cold, “She’s scared of her own shadow.  After her father passed away, we moved to a rental house and she won’t even sleep alone.  Says her room’s too cold and she hears—“ The woman shook her bright red locks and laughed to herself, “I’m sorry, don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Do you feel cold in her room?”  Theresa now had Sam’s full attention, “Have you heard anything strange?”

The conversation paused as a stout woman carrying an armful of bags approached the maze, calling her children.  As the woman bustled five rambunctious kids away, Dean spoke behind the back of his hand, “Guess it’s time they got home to the shoe.”

Theresa laughed, light and breezy, then checking that Vicki still sat by Cas, she grew serious again, “You know, her room _is_ cold, sometimes.  Had it checked out and even tried a space heater, but my daughter still refuses to go in there at night.”

“And the noises?”

The woman looked up at Sam, clearly hesitant, “You’re gonna think I’m nuts.”

“Try us,” both brothers answered.

“I’ve heard…I don’t know what I’ve heard.  Maybe sighing?  But Vicki says they talk to her, tell her she doesn’t belong there.  I’m not sure what to believe, I just know my daughter’s terrified.”

Touching her shoulder gently, Sam told Theresa, “Look, we can help you—“

Just then, Cas came bursting out of the maze, clutching Vicki’s hand, both kids laughing.  Presenting his companion, Cas announced, “This is Vicki, she’s my friend!”

Dean crouched down in front of the strawberry blond girl, “Hello, Vicki, I’m Dean and this is Sam.  And you’re darn cute,” he booped her freckled nose, just for good measure.  She shied away, but giggled.

Vicki told Cas, “That’s my Mom,” and Dean noted his little friend’s charm was in turbo gear when he waved at the attractive woman and said, “Hi, Mom.”

“How would you two like to watch them make cotton candy and _maybe_ sample some?”

Cas lit up and bounced on his toes, at Dean’s suggestion. Vicki did the same, once her mother nodded her approval, with the reminder, “Don’t wander off.”  Dean seemed so genuine and she was eager to find out how Sam could help them.

“Don’t let him eat a whole one, Dean,” Sam chided, as his brother headed around a corner, a kid attached to each hand.

Alone with Theresa, Sam began, “Dean and I are what they call hunters.”

 

Infected by the kids’ excitement, Dean joined them in skipping along the exit corridor, past more twisty mirrors and some mannequins, dressed and painted like clowns. “You’re gonna love these guys, Sammy,” Dean chuckled low, then laughed outright so hard, he kept walking a few steps after Cas let go of his hand and stopped short. 

Dean and Vicki stopped and turned to find Cas standing in front of a high mirror, stock still.  “Nugget? What’s wrong?”

Cas just shook his head, completely entranced.  Dean led the little girl over and he crouched by Cas, seeing what he saw.  At first, the corners of Vicki’s mouth twitched, like she might laugh, but the other two’s faces curbed the urge.

Together, they studied the elongated, uneven image.  Dean placed a hand on the toddler’s shoulder and the mirror showed Dean placing his hand on the shoulder of Castiel, angel of the Lord.  Though somewhat distorted, before them stood Cas, at his vessel’s full height, his limbs almost proportionate, his chest full and his face—broad and square-jawed.

Dean, however, stood slack-jawed, only able to manage one word, “Cas.”


	5. Step Right Up--chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...a few things about miracles."

Sam and Theresa found Dean and the kids sitting at a picnic table, Vicki with a face full of blue sticky spun sugar and Cas on Dean’s lap, eating chunks of similar pink fluff out of the hunter’s fingers.  Cas’ baby bird mouth opened for another bite, while he stared off towards the merry-go-round, unfocussed.  “Something happen?” Sam asked his brother, taking a seat beside them, a concerned eye on Cas.  “I’ll tell you later, Sammy,” Dean looked up at Theresa, losing the battle to clean up her gooey little Smurf, who was taking bites faster than her mother could wipe, “I take it Sam gave you ‘the talk’—so, we got a hot date?”

Theresa’s auburn hair glistened in the sun, as she tossed her head back to laugh, “You guys are so cute, too bad,” she lifted her sugar-dipped daughter onto her hip, “Sam says you can come by tonight and take care of our—er, problem.  Excuse us, I’ve gotta hose her down.”

As the pretty young woman headed towards the restroom with her giggling daughter, Dean turned to his brother, “What did she mean, ‘too bad’?”

Sam shrugged, “More important things on her mind, I guess.  Sounds like there may be more than one spirit in her house.”

“Yahtzee,” Dean laid the cotton candy on a paper plate and wiped Cas’ bright pink lips.

His blue eyes still watching the blur of spinning horses, Cas spoke up, “Vicki hasn’t told her Mom, but her Daddy’s ghost is there, protecting them from the others.”

“Who are the others, Nugget?”

Cas finally looked up at Dean, “They lived—and died there long ago.  They’ve told Vicki it’s their house—they’ve made others leave and they’ll make her leave, too.”

Sam also turned to Dean, “I wonder why Theresa can’t see or hear them, clearly.”

“They died as children, Sam—Vicki first saw them playing in her closet.  There was a fire on the second floor, it’s been rebuilt. I’m guessing they died at the hands of an adult and are still wary of them.”

Sam spied the redhead, as she emerged from the restroom, stopping to buy her less-blue little girl a drink.  “So, Cas, did she tell you about her Dad?”

“Uh-huh. After he died in the accident, he tucked her into bed every night, in their old house—it was their secret.  When they moved, he followed.  He keeps the children’s spirits in their old room, so Vicki can sleep with her Mom.”

“He followed them, Sam—that means he’s bound to something they’re keeping,” Dean greeted the attractive woman with a thousand-watt grin, as he laid on the charm, “Well, look who’s all pretty again, just like her Mama.”

The hunter was only marginally rewarded with a thin smile—and a side-step, “What do you say, young lady?”  A big hug and kiss from Vicki, along with a heartfelt “Thank you, Dean!” and the hunter felt he’d won over at least one redhead—that is until Cas got the same treatment.  They said their goodbyes, after exchanging numbers and arranging a time for the hunters to investigate their house.  Dean watched Theresa’s curves walk away, shaking his head.  “She thinks we’re a couple, Dean, remember?  We adopted Cas?”  Dean made a pained face at Sam, then swiped it away with his palm, “I guess they don’t give kids to straight, virile brothers, huh?”

Cas looked from Dean to Sam, “Why couldn’t you adopt me?  Do you really think sexual orientation should matter to anyone, as long as I’m happy?”

Sam answered, “No, Cas, _of course_ it shouldn’t,” but leveled a look at his brother.   Undaunted, Dean returned the look, asking Cas, “You’re really happy with us, Nugget?”

Cas nodded his head, though no one was watching and climbed up Dean’s chest to land a wet kiss on his friend’s cheek, “Sometimes I miss being big, but when I don’t—you both make me happy.”

 

As they walked the midway, Cas managed to steer his caretakers back towards the games and ridiculous giant monkey.  “Big surprise, it’s still here,” Dean said, though he lifted the tiny boy onto Sam’s shoulders, so he could embrace the big, stuffed foot.  Dean decided to be the bad guy, “Cas, I told you the games are rigged to miss—we’d need a miracle to win that thing.”

Cas’ face resembled his old holy visage, as he regarded his friend.  “Dean, you and Sam are hunters—you can hit anything.  And I…used to be an angel, I know a few things about miracles.”

After a few beats, Dean broke eye contact, clapping his hands together, loudly, “Ok, let’s win that friggin’ beast.”

It cost them more than it should have, but far less than many others who tried and the Winchesters and their little charge finally won what Dean called the “six million dollar elephant.”  Along the way, Cas had given the brothers clever tips on centrifugal force, gravity, and placed them at certain angles—overcoming some of the trickier carnival game tactics.  Now, from his perch on the game counter, he blatantly used his cuteness on the bald, tattooed carney, who ran the shooting game.  “…A-And then Sam got all three baskets!  The man had to get a pole to get the big elephant down for me—hey, mister, you got razor burn over your ear—how come you shave your head?” 

“Well, kiddo, wouldn’t want to cover up this.” Cas widened his eyes, pouring on the curiosity, as the man chuckled and turned around to show off a red and white bulls eye tattoo on the back of his head, that exactly matched the game’s targets.  Cas “Ooooohhh”ed and reached out to touch the inked circle, while Dean bent the site straight on the wooden bb-gun chained to the counter.  When the man turned around, Sam handed him a dollar.  “Just one chance, fellas? You get three more for five.”

“This’ll do,” Dean said from behind the now-true site, “start her up.”

With a grind of gears and distorted piano music, the game sprang to life, flat ducks “swimming” along strips of wooden waves, interspersed with smaller bulls eyes, changing direction at random.

 

_Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!_

 

Walking back to the Impala, it took both brothers to carry Cas’ massive prize, the toddler between them, keeping its tail from dragging in the dirt.

 


	6. Step Right Up--chapter 3

Some cramming and a good shove of Sam’s foot and they finally got Mr. Monkey into the back seat, its bulk partially invading Cas’ car seat. Dean searched his rearview for a glimpse of the boy, amongst the brown and white fur, “Don’t say we never got you nothing, Cas.”

“I would never say that, Dean—it’s a double negative.”

Sam closed his door, smiling at the angel, as his cell phone rang. “Hello, Theresa?  Let me put you on speaker.”

They could hear crying in the background.  “Sam, I screwed up.  Vicki fell asleep in the car, so I laid her down in her room, when we got home.  Nothing’s ever happened there during the day, but she woke up screaming that someone tried to drag her out of bed.  She’s hysterical and Sam—there’s finger marks on her ankle.”

Dean looked at his brother, “They’ve turned vengeful.”

“Theresa, we’re on our way over.  Listen carefully, lay a line of salt across Vicki’s doorway, then stay far away, until we get there.”

“I’m going hunting!” Cas bubbled with excitement.  The boys did not.  Sam looked over his shoulder and broke the bad news, “You’re gonna stay in the car and guard that prize with your life, little man.”

As Cas’ smile crumbled, he buried his face in sock monkey, stifling his disappointment, until Dean said, “Hey, Nugget, I’m sure Vicki will be happy to keep you company.”

Sniffling, Cas brightened, “Yeah?  She’s scared in her house, huh?”

“Yup—you can protect her while we hunt,” Dean’s words worked, as Cas was smiling again, by the time they pulled up in front of a brown-shingled old Victorian. Getting out, Sam called to Cas, “We’ll be right back, you stay put.”

Theresa answered the door with Vicki attached to her hip, still weepy on her shoulder.  She ushered them in, “Thank God you’re here, whatever’s up there, it’s angry.  When I did the salt thing, the door slammed in my face.”

Sam spoke softly to the trembling girl, “Hi, sweetheart, can I look at your leg?”  Vicki nodded, and held out a foot, but didn’t lift her head.  Sam showed Dean the bruising skin, “look how small the hand was,” then to Vicki, “the things in your room that scare you, they’re kids, aren’t they?”  The girl nodded, “They’re not nice.”

“Look, honey, Cas is out in the car, with a _big_ friend I’m sure he wants you to meet,” At Dean’s mention of Cas, Vicki finally lifted her head.

With the kids settled in the Impala, the hunters unloaded their weapons, salt rounds—and holy water, just in case.  Sam closed the trunk, “Theresa, you got a computer?”

In the kitchen, Sam confirmed the young brother and sister’s deaths in a house fire, nearly fifty years ago.  The property remained condemned for decades until rebuilt in the nineteen eighties.  “If the kids burned, there’s gotta be something tying them here—was there anything in basement or in a closet, when you moved in?”

Theresa shook her head at Sam, “Not so much as a washer and dryer.”

“Well, we gotta search,” said Dean.  They started on the first floor, then moved upstairs, but their search turned up empty.  They all stood outside Vicki’s room, “Hey, kids!” Dean called, “Time for show and tell.” Their guns cocked, Sam opened the door, whispering, “Stay on this side of the salt,” as the redhead nodded and the hunters entered.  “Come out and play, kiddos,” Dean’s coaxing turned up nothing but the fog of his breath, in the cold room.  Then a pink Barbie car rolled a few slow feet, before flying at Dean’s head.  Dean levelled his gun, but Sam stayed his hand, “We need answers, Dean.  Why are you here?”  The room answered with a distant giggle.  Outside the door, Theresa backed away in fear, “I’ll check the kids,” she said, as she headed down the hall.

Sam made his way to the closet and yanked open the door, pointing his gun. Behind the hanging clothes, his gun barrel found only a solid wall and Dean’s search under the bed turned up a single, frilly sock.  Sam tried again, “Why are you here?  What are you looking for?” and was rewarded with a pelting of plastic ponies.

“They want their toys, Sam.  They say he won’t let them have their toys,” both hunters spun at Cas’ voice.  “I told you to stay put!”  Sam was clearly pissed.

“They won’t speak to you, you need a kid,” Cas’ eyes followed something across the room, “If we find them, will you leave?”

Suddenly, the little angel was off his feet, being dragged towards closet.  Dean dropped his gun and snatched him up, yanking his leg free from the invisible force.  “Leave him alone, he’s trying to help you, damn it!”

Cas clung to Dean’s shirt, “Their toys are under the stairs, in a crawlspace—but we need to do something, first.”

 

The Winchesters and Cas stood with Vicki and her mother in the woman’s bedroom.  Cas patted the little girl’s arm, “Talk to him, Vicki.”

Taking a deep breath, Vicki looked at her Mom’s teary eyes and said, “Daddy?  Daddy, can we see you?”

A handsome man with a gash on his forehead appeared and squatted before his daughter.  “Hi, pumpkin, guess I’ve made a mess of things.”

Theresa covered her mouth, “Bill!”

“Hi, baby.  I tried to protect you, both—I tried to make them leave, but I just made them angry.  They were here first, I’m the intruder.  I thought if they stayed in your room, you’d know where you were safe.”

Theresa broke down crying, at the sight of her husband.

Clearing his throat, Sam said, “Bill, we can make the whole house safe for your family—and we can help you rest, too.”

 

Theresa collected herself enough to produce a long braid of hair, tied at both ends. “This was Bill’s, his hair was long in college, but I insisted he cut it before we were married.  I kept it as sort of a wedding present.”

Taking the braid, the brothers and Cas and left the family to their goodbyes.  Sam pulled everything out of the cabinet under the stairs, then sent little Cas into the tight space to retrieve the old playthings, reminding him, “You _can_ be a big help, Cas, but only when we say so.  Upstairs was dangerous.”   Dean used a metal pan on the stove to salt and burn the ragdoll and wooden train.  When the toys were ash, Sam lit up the braid, opening a window to clear the smell of burnt hair.

Involved in their work, neither hunter noticed Cas slip away, until Theresa appeared carrying Vicki and asked where he was.  The Winchesters started calling their little charge, panic quickly setting in.  Dean on his heels, Sam darted outside, letting out a relieved sigh, ending in an angry growl.  There stood Cas, by the open back door of the Impala, tugging doggedly at his monkey.  Sam surprised him when he grabbed his upper arm and spun him to face the angry hunter, “ _What_ do you think you’re doing?”

Cas stammered, “I-I-I—“

“Never mind, you know better,” Sam said, turning Cas by his arm and landing four rapid whacks on his bottom.

“Sammy! That’s enough—“

But Sam had already scooped a crying Cas into a hug, “You scared us half to death, hun…please, please, don’t do that again.”  Theresa and Vicki stood in their doorway, watching Sam and Dean comfort their toddler—the picture of a loving family. 

Patting Cas’ back, Dean asked him, “What _were_ you doing, anyway, buddy?”

 

Back inside, Dean watched a set of beautiful curves flit around the kitchen, reheating them all leftover spaghetti.  He took a deep whiff of tomato sauce, as she placed a helping in front of him, “And she can cook,” he grinned—but Dean’s flirtation again fell flat. Cas sat in Sam’s lap, fidgeting a bit, but happy to share his hot meal.  Vicki sat across from them, beside Mr. Monkey, who dwarfed his chair and the table alike.  With a wink to Cas, Theresa placed a plate in front of the enormous button eyes, and joined the group with her own.

It was late when the dishes were done, and the kids said their goodnights, yawning and rubbing at their eyes—there was also a long hug, where both children whispered to each other. Theresa walked them all to the door, where along with thank yous, she also doled out hugs, declaring, “You are just the most beautiful family—you’re jobs are weird—but you were all made for each other.”

Dean smiled, “Funny you should say that, cuz Sam’s my—“

“Soulmate. And Dean’s mine,“ Sam put an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

 

Driving home, Dean asked Cas, “What were you and your girlfriend whispering about?”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Dean—I’m three.  I told Vicki that she could sleep anywhere she wanted now, cuz she’s got Mr. Monkey to protect her.”

“How’d you get to be such a great kid, huh, Cas?” Dean turned to Sam, “How’d we get such a great kid?”

Sam shrugged, “Cas has always been great—in any form.”

Dean lowered his voice, “And how come you cockblocked me back there, eh, _bro_?”

Sam laughed at his brother, then said, equally low, “Cuz Cas loves being our kid, Dean and he loves Vicki and her Mom—let them think he is, for Cas’ sake.”

Dean glanced in the mirror at Cas, dozing in his car seat.  ‘You’re a pretty great kid, too, Sammy.”

 


	7. Batman and his Birthday Suit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so so many asked for more Nugget that I just couldn't say no (I'm a marshmallow, like Dean).  
> This is all kinds of cute and stuff, so I hope you like it. I missed little Cas too.  
> While as always, I yearn for comments, PLEASE don't ask for more chapters right now, as Gishwhes starts in a few hours and I'll be at Sir Collins' mercy for the next 7 days!  
> I'll most likely be unable to answer your comments until next week also, due to Misha prompting me to make nuclear reactors out of tampons, kale, and toothpicks.  
> Enjoy and happy hunting to you!  
> \--LW

“Could ya sing solo, Sammy—so low we can’t hear ya?”  Dean didn’t mean to sound harsh, but Zeppelin was…well, sacred.  Scrunching his brow into a set of amazing ski moguls, Sam retorted, “Hey, you sing all the damn time; here in the car, in the garage, in the freakin’ shower—“

“Dean sings _good_ in the freakin’ shower!”

Sam looked over his shoulder, to his parroting passenger, “Thought you were ‘too tired to shop,’ huh?  Weren’t you just sound asleep?”

“I _am_ too tired to shop for clothes, Sammy—but not to listen to you two bicker—you’re like a sitcom.”

“Yeah, Cas? Well, thanks to your brother, we were in one once,” the sour memory puckered Dean’s voice.

“Dean and I will be sure to keep at each other’s throats, so you don’t pass out trying on shorts, ok, hun?”

Little Cas slouched in his car seat, folding his short arms in the way that made him look equally frustrated and adorable.

Dean turned off the radio (Zeppelin was over, anyways), as he pulled in and parked in front of the large-chain department store.  “Aw, Dean, do we have to?”

The brothers got out and Dean opened the back, unbuckling the pouting angel.  “I don’t like it either, Cas, but unless you want to go to bed in your birthday suit, we gotta get you some lighter stuff.  You’re like sleeping with a hot water bottle—and it’s July.”  Dean lifted Cas, complete with little scowl, parking him on his hip.  As they all headed for the store, Dean felt more than the summer heat on his face; a pair of blue eyes were locked onto him.  As he plopped Cas into the seat at the front of a carriage, the toddler finally announced, “Dean, I don’t have a birthday.”

Sam chuckled, “Then I guess you don’t have to worry about the suit.”

 Dean leaned into the carriage, sliding his fists around the handle and making “Brrm-brrm” noises.  At last, their charge giggled, as Dean ran the cart across the lot, Sam racing alongside, with an empty carriage.  Naturally, Cas’ cart won and there was much celebration and breathy crowd cheers, as they reached the automatic doors.

Accepting their “welcome to Walmart” from a tired-looking WWII vet, the trio made a beeline towards children’s wear.  But the retail gods were cunning and vile—for on their way, lay aisle after aisle of shiny toys. What’s more, from the round racks of miniature clothing, the inviting plastic collection stood in clear view.  Cas spotted something unimaginably phenomenal he just _had_ to investigate— _now_ and wouldn’t stop asking.  Mumbling not-so under his breath, Dean pushed the cart and its whiny occupant to the edge of Toyland, “Like they don’t do this on purpose. Friggin Wal-holes, it’s like a devil’s trap.”   Dean’s rant didn’t affect the little angel in the least, as Cas captured his prize—a yellow and green dinosaur.  Unimpressed, Dean tried to burst the boy’s bubble, “Nugget, you’ve got a zillion of those.”

Little hands manipulated the package, so even littler fingers could reach a button through a hole in the plastic.  Cas held it up, with a triumphant, “Not like this one, Dean,” as the toy let out a movie monster roar.

“Ok, hun, but we’re here to get some clothes, so _one toy_ —and that’s it,” Sam used his firm voice, which often proved more effective than Dean’s complaints.

Cas quickly glanced down the aisle at the unknown treasures that were most definitely lurking there, then gazed fondly at his velociraptor.  “Ok, Sam.  I want him.”

As the grateful adults carted Cas and his new buddy back to the clothes, they both marveled over his fascination with prehistoric beasts.  Dean wasn’t far off in describing the enormity of the toddler’s dinosaur collection.  They were Cas’ favorite toys, often found trekking the mountain ranges of the couch cushions, keeping careful watch from their perches among the book shelves, or offering Sam or Dean a beer, manning their chilly posts in the fridge without complaint.  Basically, they were everywhere.  One time, Sam discovered Cas kneeling on the map table in front a bona fide Jurassic army.  Sam resisted the urge to scold the toddler for being on the table, as he listened to Cas explain to the creatures their coming migration patterns, in the face of the impending asteroid strike.  He urged the herbivores to pack a good amount of greens for the journey—and reassured the meat-eaters there would be a banquet coming.  Scooping the boy off the high table and plopping him safely on a chair, where he continued to address the doomed species, Sam had realized that Cas liked dinosaurs because he saw them alive—saw them grow and evolve—and witnessed their extinction.  Most kids played with toy animals because that’s what they saw in zoos, on farms, or in their homes.  This kid “grew up” with dinosaurs.

It turned out that letting Cas have a toy first worked to the Winchesters’ advantage.  Granted, by the time they had picked out several shorts and light tees in what looked like Cas’ size, they had both had their fill of velociraptor screams, but they had shopped in relative peace, otherwise.  As Dean lifted Cas out of the carriage, at the changing room doors, that peace ended.  Cas wanted nothing to do with trying things on—and most of Walmart soon knew about it. 

“C’mon, Nugget, just try a couple til we find one that fits and we’ll get the rest in that size.”

“Noooooo! Nononononoooooo!”

Sam stood there looking ridiculously huge in the small stall, an image not helped by the tiny tan shorts he was holding.  “Cas—Castiel, you don’t wanna have to come back here and do this again because they don’t fit, do you?”  Sam used his best stern voice and glared down at the angel with his equally stern look.

Cas shook his head, clutching his dinosaur to his chest, “Don’t wanna!”  Sam sighed, and gave his brother a knowing look—but it wasn’t enough to prepare Dean for the horror movie scream that followed Sam taking away Cas’ toy.

Sam crouched to Cas’ level, mistakenly thinking he could reason with the irate child, now bawling loudly and stamping his little light-up sneakers.  “Look, Cas—“ Sam tried and failed to be heard over the wailing, so Dean scooped up his screeching charge and held him close, swaying and shushing him.  As loud as an unhappy little Cas could be, his cries were ten times louder bouncing off the walls of the cramped stall.  To make matters worse, a friendly (mandated reporter) Walmart worker knocked on the door, asking pleasantly, “Is everything alright in there?”

“We’re fine,” chimed both Winchesters.

“Let us know if we can help, ok?”

“We’re fine.”

“Thanks,” Sam added.

Dean patted Cas’ back, still vibrating with his cries, “C’mon, Nugget, they’re gonna call the cops—sounds like we’re killing you in here.”

When the Castiel crying machine began to run a little slower—and a little quieter, Dean turned towards Sam, reaching out and mouthing _give me the toy_.

Sam actually hid the dinosaur behind his back, “Nuh-uh, Dean. That’s not how it works.  He wants it back, he tries on the clothes.”

“Or it gets the hose again?  Nice, Buffalo Bill.”

Sam opened and closed his mouth, tightening it to a thin line, but Dean turned away and whispered to Cas, who had wound down into hiccup mode.  Cas nodded, so Dean asked, “You ready to show us those knee dimples?” Cas shook a little with laughter, so Dean went for it, tickling chubby knees, through his jeans.  Cas’ laughter grew, pealing like wind chimes, as it echoed in the close space.  Feeling bad for having to be a hard-ass, Sam pulled Cas’ shoes off and attacked his soft feet with harassing fingers.  Cas was in hysterics, twisting in Dean’s arms, giggling wildly, when he suddenly cried out, “Stop!”

Now, anyone who enjoys being on the administrative end of a good tickle, knows a “Stop!” from the receiver is to be expected—and completely ignored.  This is the Winchester way. 

Holding a wiggling Cas under his bottom, Dean felt a wet warmth on his forearm and quickly lowered the peeing boy onto his stocking feet.  “Oh, shit.”

As the dark patch spread across Cas’ jeans, his laughter dissolved again into tears, as both brothers tried to calm him.  “It’s ok, Nugget, we’ll get you cleaned up,” Dean reassured him, “We’re surrounded by dry pants, couldn’t happen in a better place.”

Sam wiped at Cas’ tears, “It’ll be ok, hun. That was our fault. Here.”  Sam readily placed the confiscated toy in the toddler’s hands.  He looked up to see his brother smirking at him, “So, that’s how it works?”

“Go get some wipes, Dean, we’ll buy them after.”

 

As Sam began to strip off Cas’ wet pants, Dean exited the stall, returning after way too long, with his arms full.  Cleaned up but half-naked, Cas agreed to try on the dry clothes, begrudgingly.  He was still sniffling, when Dean tore open a package and pulled out his big find, “Ta-da! What’ya think, Nugget?”

Cas stared in awe at the Batman underwear, having only worn little tighty whities.  “Cool!”  Cas approved.  Sliding them on, Dean patted Cas on the Bat Signal and informed his friend, “Good, cuz I picked you out a pack of every super hero they make.”

At the register, Sam explained to the clerk what had happened and why she was scanning removed tags and open packages.  She seemed unimpressed and just kept ringing them up.  Dean tried his charm, “You didn’t expect us to carry him out of here in his birthday suit, did you?”  Sam was holding Cas, who was transfixed by his new toy, but still insisted, “I _don’t_ _have_ a birthday.”  All the while, the clerk just kept scanning.  It seemed like they had bought a lot.

 

Back at the bunker, Sam offered to give Cas a needed bath, where the toddler spent some time trying to sink as many plastic dinosaurs as he could at once—they kept popping up, so Sam took a break from angel scrubbing and lent his assistance.  After he was dry and re-dressed, complete with super undies, Cas got to play with his prize velociraptor (whose voice box would have been extinguished in the tub).  Following the roars, Dean found them playing on the carpet in Sam’s room, Cas’ infantry of lesser plastic beasts being commanded by the larger, new arrival.

“How about some brontosaurus burgers?”  Dean didn’t have to ask twice, as they were all hungry after the trying Walmart trip.  They settled in at the table and dug into Dean’s famous burgers and fries.  Predictably, Cas was on the move after his first bite, but made Dean happy with lots of yummy sounds.  The boy chewed away, as he flew his new toy around the room.

“I didn’t know that dinosaur could fly, Cas,” Dean had to muse between bites, “Guess I didn’t read the package.”  A giggling boy and a ferocious beast each took a bite, next time they came by the table.  Clearing the table of dinner plates, Dean headed to the kitchen.  Sam lured Cas back to the table, by asking raptor questions, about which the little angel seemed to know every last thing, right down to the dinosaur’s sleeping habits.  The two were still sitting together, Sam propped up on the table by his elbow, giving Cas his undivided attention, when Dean returned.

The hunter walked in slowly, carrying something rectangular with both hands.  It was too high for Cas to see above the cutting board, but the boy’s eyes widened when he saw--it was on fire!

Then Sam and Dean began to sing, “ _Happy birthday to Cas, happy birthday to Cas_ …”

Cas’ jaw dropped and stayed in that position, as Dean placed the cake in front of the toddler and the brothers finished the song, “ _happy birthday, Lil’ Nugget, happy birthday to Cas!”_ Pulling cone-shaped hats out nowhere, the brothers quickly suited Cas and themselves up to party.

Cas was speechless, as his eyes roved over the sloppy white frosting, his name in blue piping more or less across the center.  In one top corner, lay an oval of more blue icing, with a plastic brontosaurus wading through it and in the opposite corner, Cas’ favorite T-Rex, its stubby arms presenting two lit candles—a third candle wedged in its teeth.  Dean had worked hard.

“Well, Nugget? Aren’t ya gonna make a wish?”

Cas looked up at Dean and blinked, “A wish?”

“Yeah, buddy, anything you want—well, within reason.  If you wish for The Beatles to get back together, that’s probably not gonna happen.  You wish, then you blow the candles out.”

Cas thought hard a moment, then, “I wish—“

“Wait, don’t tell us.  Keep it a secret,” Dean put a finger to his lips.

“Why?”

“So it’ll come true.  You better hurry, hun, before Rex melts,” Sam rubbed Cas’ back to encourage the boy.

Cas closed his eyes, smiled, then opened them and blew out the candles, toddler-style—with two breaths and plenty of saliva.  He was delighted when the brothers broke into applause.

They all enjoyed Dean’s experimental cake endeavor (Sam found an eggshell in his piece), but Cas had discovered a whole new level of fun—frosted dinosaurs.  After the little angel licked them both clean, Bronty and Rex spent some time stomping through Cas’ large portion of cake, re-frosting themselves well.  Thoroughly absorbed in his game, the flash of Dean’s camera phone took Cas by surprise.  The hunter received a blue and white smile so sweet, Dean appealed to his brother to help prop the phone on the table edge and show him how to set the timer.

 Sam and Dean rushed to sandwich Cas, as he tilted his messy head, considering the camera’s countdown flash.  “C’mon, Nugget, family picture—smile!”

Cas wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it out loud, but he had got his wish.

 

His sugar-rush spent, Cas cooperated sleepily, as Dean washed his sticky face and hands.  The angel managed a small smile, as Dean slipped a new T-shirt over his head—Batman to match his undies.  Already in his new sleep shorts, Cas cleaned his teeth, not too tired to appreciate how the frosting turned his brush blue.  Sam had already said goodnight with a “Happy birthday, hun,” and an extra kiss, so Cas curled up beside Dean without a fuss, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets.  Zip-up footie jammies may be a toddler staple—but not after Memorial Day.

“Thank you for my birthday, Dean.”

“Y’welcome, Nugget.”

“I know it wasn’t real, but it was fun.”

Dean propped himself up on an elbow, “Not real?  You got your new toy and we sang and had cake…and hats! _There were hats_.  That makes it official—Castiel was born the twelfth of July…who cares what year.”

“But—“

“Uh, uh, uh—it’s _official_.”

Cas stopped arguing, so Dean got comfy again.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Nugget?”

“Next year, can I get a pony?”

 


	8. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sick Lil' Nugget--cuz y'all asked for it.

I woke up coughing--again.  At first, it was annoying, interrupting a rare dreamless night, but now it hurt.  My throat was scratchy and raw, but that was nothing compared to the brontosaurus that sat on my chest.  Bronty, I thought you were my friend.  
Another cough came bubbling up and out my mouth, involuntarily dampening the shoulder I was curled up against. My sweaty head plopped down, as my hunter pillow moved and shifted, but before I could make my patented noise of displeasure, the most wonderful thing in the world scooped up my head and neck, cradling me against a solid wall, as another wonderful thing patted my back firmly.  
  
"Easy there, Nugget.  Take a few breaths before you cough up a lung."  
  
Dean sounded sleepy and though his words were gruff, they covered me softly, like a blanket.  Wait, I dozed off--when was I covered with a blanket?  
  
I was coughing again, but this time I clumsily covered my mouth with both hands, trying not to spray Dean in the face or wake him up again.  The reassuring hand that patted my back said I failed at the latter, and though I knew how much my caretaker needed his sleep, I was glad to have his company, his affection, his attention.  That's me--Angel of The Lord, smiter of demons, miracle-maker, healer--and cuddle bunny.  
  
Sometimes, it bothered me. Sometimes I felt shame and guilt over being cared for by Sam and Dean; sometimes I felt better than this, like I shouldn’t so badly need all that these men give me. Sometimes I'm even useful.  
But this night, I needed warm hands and soft words. This night, I was hurting. This night, I was sick.  
   
Sam took me to the local playground and after tiring out his big, lumbering limbs on the swings and the slide, I joined a group of kids just a little older than me (yeah, right) in the sandbox.  We built a village, then a small city--the kids didn't seem interested in knowing the difference--and all the while, my playmates rubbed their noses across their sleeves.  I should have been concerned, but Town Hall really needed a hedge and a walkway and had my thorough attention when the boy in the hoodie's Mom came over to offer us bags of crackers to share.  I was erecting a dried-leaf flag, when a pudgy. moist hand filled my own with Cheezits. Some are born with snacks, some learn how to get them--and some have snacks thrust upon them. Not that I minded, I love Cheezits.  
So I crammed them down, somehow forgetting what a germ was or that all the small bodies around me were currently afflicted by some form of the plague.  
  
Live and learn, I believe  the saying goes.  Perhaps another few millenia will help.  
  
As I continued to cough, louder and harder. Dean continued to pat my back, usually one of my fix-alls at this size--but my rasping continued. My throat felt like I had swallowed the sandbox, but at least Bronty had shifted off my chest. Now she was just jumping up and down there, in time with my coughing.    
Dean sat upright, bringing me with him with a forearm under my rear, bouncing me slightly and patting my back more forcefully.  "Hey, hey, hey--easy, Cas.  Breathe, buddy, you're gonna make yoursel--"  
  
Guess why he stopped.  The most horrific thing that ever happened to me happened.  
  
I felt like my insides were rolling around, then my tummy cramped--and the grossest stuff I ever smelled and tasted came shooting out my mouth--all over Dean.  
We stared at each other in shock for a moment, then I did what I always did when my little vessel experienced something unpleasant.  
  
I cried.  
  
I cried loud and long, as poor Dean tried to move without dragging my mess all over; holding me away, at arm’s length.  
"Aw, crap, Cas! What a fucking mes--no, no, no, it's not your fault.  Shhhh, easy, it's ok."  
  
Thanks Dean but too late--I saw your face, heard your tone--there's no hiding that you're pissed.  If you think an angel is observant, try fooling a toddler.  
  
As I pulled in putrid air for another loud wail, light entered from across the room.  "Can I help at all?"  
  
"Yes!" Dean and I pleaded in unison.  As Sam entered and flicked on the light, he also did a poor Winchester acting job of hiding his reaction.  Huge eyes topped a grimace that almost but not quite covered a speck of amusement.  He may as well have said, "I'm fine." I clearly saw his disgust through stinging, tear-filled eyes.  
  
Sam's trance broke and he pulled the sheet off Dean's bed, wrapping it around screaming, fetid me and taking me from his dripping brother. "Let's go get you cleaned up, Hun.  Dean, you can use my shower," Sam motioned out the door with his chin. Holding his hands out like Frankenstein's monster, Dean looked just as ashen as he headed out the door, stunned and thoroughly grossed out.  
Sam carried me carefully into the nearest bath and ran the tub, wiping off my face and chin with tissues.  
  
"Never been sick before, have you Cas?"  
  
I shook my head, still sniveling and sobbing a bit.  Once I’ve started, I’ve found it next to impossible to stop crying--that is without a little help from my friends.  Sam ran clean fingers through my hair and I leaned back into his big hand, as it rested solid and steady on the back of my neck.  
  
"Sssshhh, it's ok, now Hun.  You'll be ok--we'll make sure of it."  
  
Sammy always knows just what to say.  
  
Stripped of my stomach acid-print onesie, I was lowered into luxurious bubbles, Sam-style.  Instead of popping me into the tub butt-first, like Dean did, Sam liked to lower me in, lying  on my back--an enormous arm around my waist to hang on to.  I like to pretend to swim--or even fly, floating there in his sure grip, but tonight I just closed my swollen eyes and enjoyed not feeling awful for a moment.  
  
The water felt hotter than usual and I slowly realized it was me that was hot, when Sam felt my forehead, shook his head,  and exhaled his diagnosis.  
  
"Sammy, I feel yucky."  
  
"I know, buddy, I know."  
  
I look up at him through his fallen bangs, as he rinses my back, "You do? Do you feel yucky too?"  
  
"No, Cas, not right now, but I have and I know it--"  
  
" _Sucks_. It sucks, Nugget.  Nothing fun about being sick."  
  
As Dean entered, wearing only sleep pants, he brought along a rush of cool air, which his brother stifled, by roughly shutting the door. "Not smart, Dean."

Sam lifted me out of the draining tub and Dean met us with a big, soft towel, stilling my shivers. A human vessel is a funny thing--it shakes from cold, fear, pain--but also from excitement or joy. I was certainly not excited about this being sick. Scooping me into his arms, Dean began to gently rub the towel on my skin, as he turned on Sam, "Nothing smart about letting him play with Typhoid Mary, either."  
Sam looked mad, then a bit sheepish, then defensive. "He was having fun, Dean. You wanted him to play with other kids, didn't you?"  
Dean roughed up my wet hair with a towel corner, "Yes, Sam, _play_ with them--not share freakin' microbes."  
  
Sam opened his mouth to respond, but so did I, unleashing another round of painful coughs.  It was exhausting and I leaned on Dean's bare shoulder, sighing as the chest ache subsided.  
  
"There's an all-night pharmacy in town, Sam.  He needs cough syrup and some vapor rub," I felt Dean's cool hand engulf my heated forehead, "and kid's Tylenol."  
  
Sam nodded, memorizing the list, his sizable hand dwarfing my back, then paused as he turned to leave.  "Dean, stay in here with him as long as you can and keep this door shut.  The steam helps, he didn't cough until you came in.  If it starts again, run the shower hot."  
My Sammy is so smart.  
  
After Sam left, Dean sat us down on the toilet lid, finishing drying me off but keeping me wrapped tight in the only thing I was wearing.  
  
I kept my head on his shoulder, content to not have a mess between us anymore.  This spot on Dean's shoulder had become one of the most comfortable places I'd ever known.  The Righteous Man had always been standoffish, not quick to touch others, but quick to jump at another's touch.  Dean had hugged me once in Purgatory, when I had been stunned at being found, having avoided my friend for months, for his own safety.  Later, I had always regretted not hugging Dean back--not taking advantage of the Righteous Man's rare affection.  
  
Now, however, I couldn't go a day without Dean's touch--the sun rose and set on it.  My tiny vessel craved the contact it received from both hunters. Their touch has made me feel safe, important--cherished.  Sam and Dean often speak to me with their hands--a tousle of my hair means "You're ok," a reassuring pat on the back, "I'm here." or a soft kiss on the forehead, at bedtime-- _they want me._  
  
Dean rocked me there on the toilet, against his chest, not talking but humming what I was sure was a rock song.  The burning sensation in my chest kept me awake through the deep-toned lullaby, so I asked, "Dean, are you still mad I got sick on you?"  
I got a squeeze that said, "No, Nugget."  
  
"No, Nugget, I'm not mad."  
I squeezed my hunter back, burrowing my cheek against his freckled skin.  
  
"Any more."  
  
I raised my head to consider Dean's answer and found a smirk there, as Dean continued, "It was pretty gross, buddy. Even _you_ didn’t want to touch you."  
  
How did he do that?  Since my "change," amusing things Dean said seemed to elicit the most untamed giggles from my little vessel.  I planned to only smirk at him or scoff at his lowly humor, but instead--and I quote the man himself here--I lost my shit.  
  
And so I found myself, naked in a damp towel, in my friend's lap on the toilet, having puked and cried my three-year-old self out, sick for the first time in thousands of years--giggling and snorting my fool head off.  
  
"Hehehe--was kinda gross, huh? Teehee..."  
The laughter felt centuries better than the state I was in before my bath--that was, until I started hacking, even harder than before.  Dean acted fast, thumping me on the back, while turning the hot water on full blast.    
He walked me around the small room, as I continued to whoop against his chest--it hurt like crazy, but I couldn't stop. Unbeknownst to me, tears began to course down my cheeks, bouncing off, as I continued to gasp and choke.  I could barely catch my breath.

I was scared.

Next I knew, there was heat all around, as I heard the shower curtain clatter across the rod.  I felt a mist of hot water against my forehead, where Dean's hand didn't totally cover.    
"Breath, Cas...c'mon, Nugget, easy buddy, you've got to breathe."  
  
Dean's voice registered muffled above the running water, which was close--too close.  As my coughs became more sporadic, the therapeutic steam filling my tortured lungs, I chanced a peak between Dean's fingers.  The hunter stood inside the shower--the steaming hot spray bouncing off his broad back--spray that I had only felt a spatter from but knew was too hot for human skin. But this human--my human--stood under it, unflinching.    
"Dean--" I started, but was quickly shushed, strong hands stroked my back--sure and steady affection from The Righteous Man.  
  
When Sam returned, he found us together on Dean's bare mattress--now on the floor, far from the soiled headboard.  We had built a fort over the memory foam using pillows, sheets, and a few chair cushions we shanghaied from the library.    
"Hi, Sammy, we had a shower!"  The brothers had a wordless conversation over my head (I was used to it), then Sam gave me some cough medicine that tasted like grape candy, while the Tylenol had an even more artificial strawberry flavor.  Not complaining. The heavy dose of steam, combined with the medicine, made me sleepy--and relatively cough-free. Sam tucked me in and kissed me goodnight, having to climb his lanky frame into the fort to do so, and lingering a beat while Dean planted his own goodnight on my beloved forehead.    
"I'll be right back, Nugget. If you're still awake, we'll read, ok?"  
"Ok, Dea--" the rest was lost in my yawn.  
  
I closed my eyes, as Sam and Dean stepped out of the room, talking low.  
  
"...of that sunburn cream left, Sammy? Think you could help me out?"  
  
I smiled around the fingers that found their way into my mouth--The Righteous Man, asking for touch.


	9. To Bead or not To Bead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I got this prompt--sort of. It involved glitter and a scenario that another writer had visited, beautifully, so I changed it a bit.  
> Basically, I missed Nugget too, so enjoy.

“Sonnofabitch!”

Sam looked up sharply from his book in time to see his brother hopping on one foot, his ‘dead guy’s' robe flapping around him, as he dug at his lifted heel and slopped coffee on the tiles.

“Another one, huh?  Told you to wear slippers.”  Sam barely hid his amusement, as Dean rubbed at his foot and scowled at the offending evil piece of plastic between his fingers. 

“Slippers are for old ladies, Sam.”

“And for hunters who like to start their day without their insteps impaled on craft supplies.”

Dean shook his head, swigging back the sip left of his morning coffee.  He was on his knees, wiping up the spilled drops, when the hunter was attacked a second time—before breakfast.  This time he was assailed by a tiny flying angel, who landed on his back with a joyous squeal of “Giddy up!”

After the “Oof!” he let out on impact, Dean took a slow, deep breath, then…

“Neeeeiiigh!” He bucked, carefully bouncing the toddler on his back, then proceeded on all fours to the trash can, where he disposed of the coffee-soaked paper towel with another whinny.  As he bucked a bit harder, Dean reached back to catch his giggling rider and deposit him onto the back of his neck, where he rode the hunter’s shoulders as his steed rose to his feet. 

“Again!”

Dean patted the chubby leg against his ear and nearly begged, “How ‘bout after breakfast, Nugget?”  Sam was already pouring his brother another steaming cup, which Dean took gratefully, with a careful sip.   Sam relieved Dean of his tiny jockey, plopping Cas down on the counter, complete with flying sound effects and a playful, “Boom.”

Cas laughed and pointed his little thumbs up, “Thanks, Sam, for making perfect landing gear.”

Sam cleared his throat, the levity leaving his expression, as he held out his hand, showing the boy the plastic bead.  “And we know how much you like making your pictures, Cas—but we talked about where these were ok to use, remember?”

Little Cas stared at the green circle, so tiny on Sam’s big palm and shrugged so adorably, Sam found himself focused on the bead, to avoid smirking.  “Where’d you find that? I’m almost out of green.”

“In my foot, Nugget—where they usually end up…or stuck in the drain or jammed in the vacuum or melted in the dryer.  You pitched a fit when we tried to eighty-six your bead crafts, so we said you could make ‘em in _your_ room— _and keep ‘em there._ ”

Again, Cas looked beyond adorable, sitting on the counter edge in his spaceship pj’s, swinging his feet and looking between the brothers with big, wide blue eyes.  “I did…I mean, I do.  Maybe it got stuck to my shirt and fell off in here.  I use lots of glue.”

Sam placed the bead in Cas’ grabby hand, “Well, try to be more careful, ok, hun?”  Sam leaned on the counter, his hands on either side of the toddler, “Dean spilled his coffee because of that little bugger—you don’t want another apocalypse, do you?”  The tall hunter leaned in close, narrowing his eyes as Cas’ widened even further. His voice got low, “This time something really dangerous might get loose….something…like…the…”

Suddenly Cas was swept up in the air by big, strong hands, long fingers poking his little ribs—“Tickle monster!”

The chilly kitchen filled with warm laughter, Cas’ wind-chime giggles infecting both hunters, as Dean found he could care less about his sore foot. 

After breakfast, Sam offered to get Cas dressed while Dean showered.  Plagued by nightmares, the little angel bunked with Dean every night, despite a perfectly good Nugget-sized bed unused in a colorfully-decorated room just down the hall.  Cas’ “bedroom” had served mainly as a storage unit for his toys and his clothes—and now as the boy’s craft room.  Cas would spend hours quietly gluing and coloring, emerging from his space covered himself in his medium, proudly showing off his latest masterpiece.  The bunker was virtually becoming wallpapered with colorful works consisting of felt, paints and markers, ribbon, and of course, hard little circles of barefoot doom—but never, _never_ glitter (Dean had put the kibosh on that from the very start of his little friend’s art career).  First the fridge had been covered, then Dean and Sam’s bedroom doors, the walls of the hallway, and lastly, the library.  While Sam seemed endlessly amused by what he called “Craftiel,” Dean was baffled by his charge’s works.  Most weren’t pictures of anything he could make out, but mostly patterns of color and odd shapes.  If he pressed Cas for a description, the boy would pout and look disappointed, so Dean quickly learned to smile and say “thank you"--not without first receiving some choice bitch faces from his brother.  And so, the bright creations produced by tiny hands were to be treated as nothing short of what they were--stunning angelic gifts.

As Sam carried his little angelic bundle down the hall, it struggled to be put down and pinned itself against his bedroom door. “Wait!  Sam, I’ll get my clothes—you stay out here, ‘k?”

Sam eyed Cas suspiciously, “Did something happen in there you don’t want me to see?  Did you make a mess with your glue or paints?”

Cas shook his shaggy head, “No, no, Sammy, it’s…a secret.”

Sam’s forehead did the Wi-fi thing. “Aaah, I see.  And I’m not gonna be mad if I find out your secret?  Or Dean?”

Again, Cas’ hair stood even higher, shook emphatically.  “Nope, nuh-uh.  It’s a surprise for you and Dean—but mostly for Dean, cuz he doesn’t really like my pictures.”

Sam got down on one knee and smoothed his big hand over Cas’ hair, “Aw, Cas, that’s not true. Dean just doesn’t…get it, you know?  That something can be pretty just to be pretty.  Not everything has to look just like we see it.”

Looking at his chubby hands, Cas rocked back and forth on his bare feet, then said softly, “But, it’s exactly what I see.”

“You mean, in your imagination, right, Cas?  I think it’s great.”

“No, Sam—not my ‘magination.  Everything alive; the trees, the birds, grass, flowers, insects, people-- _you_ , Sam—you all have an aura.  People, most of all, because of your souls.  Souls are the most pretty—yours and Dean’s are on the fridge.  My dreams are red, I don’t want them near where we sleep.”

“—That’s why you had me hang those in the library.”  Sam sounded like he’d just solved a case.

Cas nodded, “All angels see souls and music and sometimes even feelings.”

Sam gazed at Cas like the miracle he was.

“I know I’m not an angel anymore, Sam, but I can still see like one…or remember what things look like—I’m not sure which.  But making what I see feels…right.  Sorry ‘bout the beads and making Dean mad.”

“He’s not mad, Hun,” Sam smiled warmly, “He’s just a grumpy hunter who doesn’t know a beautiful aura when he sees one.”

“Who’s a grumpy hunter?”

“Speak of the—”

A little hand clamped over Sam’s mouth. “Don’t say it, Sammy.”

 

It was a quiet day in the bunker, the Winchesters researching a woodland haunting a state away, while Cas kept to his room, working diligently on his secret surprise.  The little angel only came out for lunch after being tempted with the promise of tater tots and disappeared behind the solid door again, shortly after his respite.  While sweeping crumbs from the toddler’s under-table munching post, Sam found a single bead.

Knocking gently, Sam eased Cas’ door open a crack and placed the green plastic inside, then closed it and returned to his research.

It was nearly dinner time and Dean had given up on reading about wood nymphs, when Cas’ socks padded into his room.  Dean lifted his head off his pillow and paused his movie, “Hey, Lil’ Picasso, you’re out of your cave. C’mere, buddy.”  Cas scrambled up on the bed beside Dean and curled into him, yawning.  “So, where’s the latest rainbow?”

“It’s drying, I’ll show you after dinner.”

Dean patted the warm bundle at his side, “OK, buddy. And thanks for keeping that stuff in your room, like we asked.”

“You’re welcome, Dean. I’m all out of beads now, anyways.”

 

After take-out, supplemented with one of Sam’s deluxe salads, the brothers sat full at the table in front of empty boxes and plates.  Cas had once again taken off as soon as his face and hands were wiped, leaving Sam and Dean to finish their beers. 

“He’s made another one—says he used up all his beads on this one.”

Sam took his last swig and leaned in, “You know, Dean, you might try looking at Cas’ art with a different perspective.  Not everyone sees the world the same way.”

“I’ve tried, Sam, I don’t know, I don’t think I’m cut out to see that abstract crap.”

“It’s not crap, Dean—it’s real.  Cas told me angels see colors in…everything.  In _us_.  Some of those pictures are us, Dean.  Have you noticed, that besides the red ones, they’re all really beautiful?”

“Sam, you’re giving me feelings and shit.  And what’s wrong with the red ones?  I thought those were kinda cool—”

“Those are fear, Dean.  Terror—his bad dreams.  He’s been trying to tell us something and we’ve been too…human to see it.”

Dean pushed the empty dishes aside and considered his brother’s words, “He really sees that stuff?  Man, Sammy, he must think I’m a real jerk, not getting it.”

“I didn’t get it, either, Dean.  I just showed more appreciation for his arts and crafts.”

Dean was about to respond when a tiny, beloved voice spoke up from the doorway.  “I think you’ll really like this one, Dean.”

The brothers both startled, sitting up straight, as Dean cleared his throat.  “I’m sure I’m gonna love it, Nugget.  Let’s see it, buddy.”

Cas had been peeking around the doorframe, his arms out of sight, but stepped into full view, awkwardly grasping a poster-board sized rectangle.  As he neared the table, the brothers could see it was made up of four smaller pieces of paper, taped together.  It was his largest craft endeavor to date.  Cas turned his creation over, as he slid it onto the table, between Sam and Dean, who marveled at the picture.

Cas had made an image in mosaic, using hundreds of plastic beads, all glued carefully in place to form the clear picture of—his family.

There stood Sam, tall and long-haired, wearing what would seem to some to be a checkered red and black shirt, but to Sam was clearly his favorite plaid flannel.  Beside him stood an adult Castiel, donning his familiar tan trench coat and blue tie, dark wings at his sides.  Dean smiled at his image, his legs bowed slightly in their blue jeans and his eyes made up of green beads identical to the one that had started his day wrong.  Baby was there, too, shiny and black, her trunk open and well-stocked in beaded details.

But what caught Sam’s eye was the color surrounding each figure—his was yellow, with rays of purple and orange and Cas was surrounded by solid blue.  And then there was Dean, engulfed in three shades of green and ringed with the lightest blue—Sam watched while his brother gingerly touched the color surrounding his image and turned to his expectant little friend.

“This is really what you see, Cas?  This is what my—”

Dean swallowed, audibly.

“—what my soul looks like?”

Cas nodded slowly, “It’s so bright, Dean,” he looked at Sam, “You’re both so bright.”

“And yours, buddy?  Yours should be brighter than both of ours.”

Cas looked down at his picture, running a small finger along the blue beads.  “That’s my—that _was_ my grace.  I miss it.”  The finger trailed along the dark-beaded feathers, “I miss these.”

Dean’s hand rested on Cas’ back, “I know you do, buddy.”

“This is wonderful, Cas.  It’s perfect, I’d like to frame it.”

Cas smiled, though his eyes were wet.  “Thanks, Sammy.  I wanted to make something we all can see.” The smile forced a tear to trickle down and Dean swiped it with his thumb.  “I totally see it, Nugget—all of it.  Angels have some pretty trippy vision, huh?”

“Uh huh.  Sometimes, I can tone it down—but not when I look at you two.  You’re too bright.”

Dean wiped Cas’ little cheeks again, then stood and headed for a set of drawers, where he rummaged in one, before heading back to the table.  Cas suddenly found himself the recipient of a pair of over-sized sunglasses, the lenses hanging over his little nose.  “There,” said Dean, folding his arms and looking quite satisfied with himself.  Sam rolled his eyes, but had to laugh at cool little Cas, looking around the room, through his new shades.  Cas held the loose glasses on as he gazed up at Dean, “Nope. You’re still bright green.”

They all dissolved into laughter, the chilly kitchen once again just that much warmer.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
